


Snapshots

by writedontfight



Series: Falsettos one-shots [5]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, a collection of ficlets I've posted on tumblr, but i want them on my ao3 anyway!, depends on the work, i really have no other tags for this, some canon time period, some modern au, this is a bunch of little fics that aren't quite long enough to post independently, this isn't a multi chapter fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writedontfight/pseuds/writedontfight
Summary: Like a literary photo album. Snapshots of these characters' lives.





	1. Dialogue Prompts (Round One)

_Ficlets inspired by d_ _ialogue prompts sent in by my followers from[this post](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/poledancingghostson) (not accepting any more at the moment, but I still have plenty left to write)  
_

 

 

* * *

 

**I’m Only Here to Establish an Alibi**

It’s a quiet night. Just him and a book. Cordelia’s reheated leftovers sitting half-eaten on the table in front of him. A quiet, pleasant night. Whizzer comes over most nights. When Jason isn’t here, at least. Leaves before Marvin wakes up, but back again the next evening. Marvin thinks he might as well live here. Might as well not pay for another apartment when he’s only there in the early hours of the morning. But Whizzer has other plans, it seems.

Tonight, those plans don’t include Marvin at all. “I need a night out, Marvin. I haven’t been to the bar in so long they’ll think I’ve gone sober or something.” And as much as Marvin hates thinking about what Whizzer is doing without him, he has to admit, he likes having the evening to himself. To catch up on reading and catch up on sleep and just to have some peace and quiet for once.

Then there’s banging on the door. Violent and booming. “Marvin!” Whizzer slurs loudly. “Open up!”

Marvin looks around the apartment, as if something in there could answer the question of what the hell he’s doing here. He stands up with a sigh and sets the book down on the table, moving slowly towards the door as Whizzer continues to shout. “Alright, alright, calm down!” He swings the door open to the smell of cheap gin and sweat, and leans against the frame, blocking Whizzer from entering. Whizzer is shivering in his silky pink button-up and tight pants. Marvin’s knees go weak just looking at him, but it certainly isn’t the right dress for a winter night. “What happened to your night out?”

“I’m only here to establish an alibi,” Whizzer says through gritted, chattering teeth.

“I don’t harbor fugitives,” Marvin says simply, starting to shut the door again. Whizzer’s hand shoots out and catches it before it can close.

“So you’ll let me freeze out here ? Some boyfriend you are.”

Marvin’s heart skips. Boyfriend? Neither have used that word before. Some hope or excitement or something jolts through him before he remembers the slurring of the words and the putrid scent of alcohol. He shouldn’t overthink it. Whizzer’s drunk. He’s just drunk. Still, Marvin steps away from the door and beckons him inside. “So, what has you running from the law?”

Whizzer closes the door behind him with a sigh of relief, hugging his chest and rubbing the warmth back into his arms. “I’m poor and those guys have expensive drink orders.”

Marvin shakes his head. “Since when are you the one buying the drinks?”

“Since I’ve been spending so much time with you,” Whizzer accuses. He falls onto the couch. “I’ve lost my touch. Added so many drinks to my tab and got nothing for it.”

Marvin wants to change the subject. He wishes now he’d never asked. The warmth he’d felt at Whizzer’s slip-up in the doorway had given way to the usual cold jealousy. “So if we get called on by an angry bartender, you were here all night?”

Whizzer smiles. “Exactly.”

“And what makes you think I’ll cover for you?” Marvin asks. He sits back down at the kitchen table. “I wouldn’t mind it if you never went back to that place.”

Whizzer groans and stands up. He kneels in front of Marvin and runs a thumb softly across his lips. His other hand moves slowly up his thigh. “I can be very convincing,” he smiles.

Marvin looks up at the ceiling, trying to get control over his suddenly racing heart. “You’re drunk off of drinks you bought in an attempt to fuck someone else.” He clutches Whizzer’s wrists and pushes him back. He stands up and looks down at him. “Sue me, but I’m not feeling that tonight.”

Whizzer pouts and pulls his arms from Marvin’s fists. “Fine.” He stands up and turns toward the bedroom, but Marvin pushes him back.

“Couch,” he demands simply.

“Marvin-”

“Couch!” Marvin repeats.

Surprisingly, Whizzer complies, however reluctantly, and Marvin says goodnight, resigning himself to his bedroom. But he doesn’t fall asleep. He tosses and turns until he hears the bedroom door open. Whizzer’s silhouette is leaning against the door jamb. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says softly.

Marvin doesn’t invite him in, but he doesn’t send him away either. He doesn’t say anything. Just closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. He hears Whizzers’s muffled footsteps approaching and feels the mattress sink as Whizzer slips under the covers. He presses his body against Marvin’s and wraps his arm around him. Marvin can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. He gives up the charade and turns to kiss him lightly, tasting the alcohol on his lips. “Why did you come here? Why didn’t you just go home?”

“I told you, I’m only here to establish an alibi.” Whizzer assures him.

Marvin sighs and turns away again, lacing his fingers into Whizzer’s and hugging his arm to his chest. He’s inclined to believe him. This man who has never shown him a sliver of affection without some ulterior motive. But, for the first time, when he wakes up the next morning, Whizzer is still there.

 

* * *

 

  **I Don't Want to Screw This Up**

You’re quiet.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re the one who asked me here.”

_Here_ is a coffee shop near the Central Park baseball fields. It’s an odd time for coffee. There aren’t many people here. Whizzer and Marvin are sitting at a corner table, as deep into the shadows as they could manage. Whizzer’s cappuccino remains untouched, while Marvin’s mug sits empty. “I know,” Marvin says. “I’m sorry.”

Whizzer shakes his head. “An apology. That’s new.”

“I know,” Marvin repeats. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, don’t wear it out, Marv. Loses its meaning eventually.”

Marvin looks down at his empty mug. “I am, though.”

“What for?” Whizzer asks.

“You know what for,” Marvin says.

“No, I don’t. I need you to say it.”

Marvin’s head falls and he falls silent.

“If you’re not going to talk to me, I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“And if that’s all you have to say, I’m leaving.” Whizzer pushes his chair back and stands with a frown. “Tell Jason he did great today.”

Before he can go, though, Marvin jumps up and grabs his hand, knocking the table and spilling a splash of Whizzer’s coffee onto the small plate on which the mug is resting. “No. Please, Whizzer. Stay.”

“Why, Marvin?” Whizzer asks. “If you’re not going to talk, there’s no reason for me to be here.”

Marvin shakes his head. “That’s…. I have so much to say to you. So many speeches planned out over the years. But none of them seem right anymore. Not now.”

“At least try.”

Marvin opens his mouth and shuts it again.

“Okay, I’m going.” Whizzer tries to pull away, but Marvin just grips his hand harder, desperate not to let him go again.

“I just don’t want to screw this up,” Marvin says, his voice tight with a sudden burst of emotion. “Not this time. Not ever again.”

Whizzer looks down at their hands, finally closing his fingers around Marvin’s. He sits back down. Marvin does the same. They face each other silently, their hands still interlocked and resting on the table between them. Whizzer’s fingers caress Marvin’s knuckles ever so slightly. “Take your time,” he says quietly. “I’m listening.”

 

* * *

 

**Why Are We Whispering?**

“Whizzer,” Cordelia hisses, hitting his arm lightly.

“What?” Whizzer asks distractedly, looking up from his phone for a second to give her an annoyed look.

“Cute girl,” Cordelia whispers. “Really cute girl.” 

They take a step forward in line. 

Towards the counter.“You’re always saying that,” Whizzer laughs.

“No, no, she’s _really_ cute I promise. She looks so- and she just- she just radiates beauty and- well, I can’t explain it. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

“Alright, show me this really cute girl,” Whizzer sighs.

“Shush!” Cordelia hushes.

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “Why are we whispering?”

Cordelia nods in the direction of the woman standing in front of them.

Whizzer raises his eyebrows questioningly. “You realise that she can definitely still hear us, right?” 

He whispers back to her.

“He’s right,” the woman says without looking back.

Cordelia’s face burns a bright red and she goes stiff. The line moves forward, but she doesn’t step with it. Whizzer grabs her wrist and pulls her stumbling forward.

“Sorry!” Cordelia blurts out.

The woman finally turns around, an amused look on her face. Her eyes scan Cordelia as her smile grows wider. “No apology necessary,” the woman says, raising an interested eyebrow.

Whizzer smirks as Cordelia squeezes his arm tightly. “I… uh…” she stutters.

“Hey, miss! You’re next!” The man behind them snaps at the woman.

“Oh, sorry!” She jumps and turns to the counter to give the barista her order.

“Will that be all?” the bored-looking barista asks.

The woman pauses for a second before turning back towards Cordelia. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Cordelia’s mouth hangs open silently.

“She’ll have a medium iced extra caramel swirl, which she’ll then add even more sugar to,” Whizzer answers for her.

Charlotte nods and repeats the order to the barista.

“And what name should I put on that?” he asks.

“Charlotte,” the woman replies.

Cordelia smiles softly. “Charlotte,” she repeats quietly. “Charlotte.” She nods. “Beautiful.”

 

* * *

 

  **You Could Have Died**

She didn’t see that the cement by the curb was badly cracked. She was staring at Charlotte, all of her attention focused on the movement of her perfect lips as she talked about a frustrating patient she had to deal with a few days prior. She was watching the way those flushed lips moved so fluidly and beautifully, her mind drifting to thoughts of kissing them and being kissed by them and feeling them trail softly down her body, making her shiver and sigh and… And then she tripped. And she hardly noticed until she heard the honking of the horns and Charlotte’s panicked screams and felt her hands and knees hit the pavement.

She immediately jumps up in the middle of the busy New York street. An annoyed taxi driver won’t stop honking his horn as he inches closer to where Cordelia is standing.

“Sorry!” she shouts, jumping back onto the sidewalk. She looks down at her scratched-up hands with a frustrated expression. “Cooking is going be hell with my hands like this,” she complains.

Charlotte grabs Cordelia’s shoulders and makes a weak attempt to shake some sense into her. “That is not what you should be thinking about! You could have died!”

“I wouldn’t have,” Cordelia says.

“If he had stopped a second later,” Charlotte cries. “Just a second later and you would’ve been roadkill!”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Cordelia giggles. “It’s New York City. If you drive these streets, you know how to brake suddenly for stupid pedestrians who think streetlights are just a suggestion.”

Charlotte sighs. “Why do you insist on making me worry about you constantly?” She places a hand on Cordelia’s cheek and tilts her face towards her. “One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed and then I don’t know what I’d do.”

Cordelia isn’t listening, though. She’s gone back to staring at those lips and all the things they can do to her.

“What was distracting you so badly, anyway?” Charlotte asks.

Cordelia smiles at her and bites her lip. “This.” She leans forward and kisses her, draping her arms over Charlotte’s shoulders so as not to irritate the scratches on her palms.

Charlotte pulls away after a few seconds, looking around self-consciously at the people who are trying to hide their obvious stares. “You still… You shouldn’t…”

Cordelia laughs and loops her arm into Charlotte’s, leaning happily into her shoulder. “Hold onto me, then. So you can catch me next time.” She leads Charlotte across the street, the light now safely green.

“You can’t always be so codependent,” Charlotte argues with a smile.

“Why?” Cordelia asks, elbowing her playfully. “Planning on leaving me?”

Charlotte shakes her head with a laugh. “No, not that. Never, ever that.”

 

* * *

 

**Watch Me**

He nurses a drink in his hand, looking blearily around the bar at the other men–flirting and dancing and drinking. It’s his natural habitat, this place. The blaring music, the smell of sex and alcohol in the air. The hot and desperate men practically throwing themselves at him. But, tonight, he just feels sick. Tonight, he rolls his eyes at all the boys in tight clothing who offer to buy him another drink. Tonight, all he can think about is Marvin.

They’d been fighting. Except they always fight. This was different. This was meaner, more vicious. It started over a late dinner. He’d had to work until six and didn’t get home for another hour and didn’t finish cooking until past eight. And, at that point, Marvin was pacing and fuming and gritting his teeth. And Whizzer didn’t sit quietly and smile and kiss him and try to diffuse the situation. No, he made some snarky remark and riled him up even more and they didn’t even end up eating the food that had caused this whole scene. Because soon enough they were screaming and shouting. They knew exactly what to say to cause the deepest wounds. They knew each other’s weak points and they knew exactly how to reach them. And, tonight, they didn’t hold back.

_“I’ll go then! For good this time!”_

_“For good, huh?”_

_“Yeah. For good. I’m done with this bullshit!”_

_“Yeah, right.”_

_“I’m serious, Marvin.”_

_“You won’t.”_

_“Watch me.”_

And he had stormed out of the apartment, with every intention of packing his bags the next day, once he knew that Marvin was at work. And then he had gotten to the bar and had downed his first cocktail and all he wanted was to go back home. To kiss him and fuck him and breathe in the scent of his shampoo as he falls asleep.

If he went home. If he swallowed his pride. If he pushed him up against the wall and pressed their lips together. If he gave in, he could have all of that. He could wake up next to him tomorrow and everything would be back to normal.

But that would be admitting that he was wrong. That would be admitting a vulnerability–an attachment–he won’t even admit to himself. And he can’t do that. He could never do that.

“Are you here alone?” a voice beside him wonders.

Whizzer looks over at the man leaning against the bar next to him. He’s shorter than Whizzer is, with messy brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. He reminds Whizzer of him. But, no, he’s fitter and younger and more self-assured than he’s ever known Marvin to be. Whizzer shakes those thoughts from his head and takes a final swig from the glass in front of him. He raises an eyebrow, then, at this man who definitely doesn’t look like Marvin. “Of course,” he says with a smirk. “And, yes, you can buy my next drink.”

 

* * *

 

**It's Three in the Morning**

Marvin watches Whizzer’s eyes drift open in the dim light of the hospital room. He’s seated on the chair next to the bed, his tailbone sore, his eyes stinging. He’s drinking the crappy hospital coffee to keep himself awake. So he can watch Whizzer sleep. So he can be here when he wakes up. So he won’t waste a second of the fleeting time he has left.

“Why are you still here?” Whizzer asks, his voice thin and tired.

“Why are you awake?” Marvin retorts.

“I haven’t slept through the night since I’ve been here,” Whizzer says. “Now stop avoiding my question.”

“Why would I leave?” Marvin asks.

Whizzer’s eyes turn to the clock on the wall. “It’s three in the morning.”

“So?”

“You need sleep, Marvin,” Whizzer insists. “Go home. Watch some TV. Drink your weight in scotch. Stop driving yourself insane.”

“I’m not driving myself insane,” Marvin says. He reaches out and pushes a stray piece of hair out of Whizzer’s eyes. He lets his hand rest gently on his cheek. “I do that when I’m not with you.”

“You’re exhausted,” Whizzer says, covering Marvin’s hand with his own. “Look at you. You’ve hardly slept in weeks.”

Marvin chuckles. “It’s ironic, you know?”

“What’s ironic?”

“That you’re worrying about me, when you’re the one in the hospital gown.”

Whizzer smiles sadly. “You’ll be wearing one soon enough if you continue on like this.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s happening anyway.”

Whizzer shuts his eyes and laces his fingers into Marvin’s pulling them away from his face. He gives his hand a tight squeeze. “Stop being so defeatist, Marv.”

“Easier said than done.”

Whizzer snorts and shakes his head. “Go home,” he pleads again.

“Not happening,” Marvin says.

“Still so stupid and stubborn,” Whizzer sighs. “Some things never change.”

“Hey!” Marvin protests with a laugh.

Whizzer slides back to the other side of the bed and pats the covers in front of him. “At least get some rest.”

Marvin smiles, sets his half-empty coffee cup on the floor, and climbs under the covers, feeling his whole body relax as Whizzer’s arms wrap around him.  His heavy eyelids quickly fall closed and he can feel himself drifting off into a much-needed slumber. “Goodnight, Whizzer,” Marvin says groggily.

“Goodnight, Marvin,” Whizzer whispers. “And thank you.”

“For what?” Marvin asks.

“For staying.”

 

* * *

 

  **Was That Supposed to Hurt?**

“Why am I even here?” Marvin pants, steadying himself on the gym wall. “I’m useless at this!”

Whizzer laughs and hits him lightly with the racket. “We just started coming, Marv. You’ll improve.”

Marvin pushes himself back from the wall and raises his arms over his head, trying to catch his breath. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Whizzer wraps an arm around Marvin’s waist, and presses a smiling kiss into his temple. “Come on,” he mutters into his skin. He leans back and gives Marvin a wide, cocky smile. “You can’t give up yet! Not before I’ve officially won!” He hits Marvin’s ass with his racket and lets go of his waist, picking the ball up from the floor and crouching into a ready stance.

Marvin groans but stands next to him, making an attempt to copy Whizzer’s stance. Whizzer flashes him a grin, bounces the ball against the floor and serves.

Marvin falls dramatically to the floor after about five more minutes. Whizzer pokes him with his foot. “God, I knew you were old, but- _hey_!” He’s cut off by the rubber ball that hits him square in the head. He rubs the spot where it hit, glaring down at Marvin’s smug expression. “Was that supposed to hurt?” he asks with a laugh.

“It was supposed to make you shut up.” Marvin boosts himself onto his elbows. “And it worked!”

Whizzer shakes his head and reaches down to help him up. When Marvin is on his feet, Whizzer pulls him forward, taking his goggles off and letting them dangle around his neck, as he presses his body flush against Marvin’s. He pushes a sweaty strand of hair out of Marvin’s eye with a smile. “Well, I thought this was fun.”

Marvin scoffs, dropping his racket in exchange for a fistfull of Whizzer’s pristine white polo. “Maybe for you. You got to laugh at me looking like an absolute fool.”

Whizzer chuckles, connects his hands around Marvin’s back and pulls the white sweatband from his wrist. “Here,” he says, slipping it onto Marvin’s. “At least this way you can appear as if you know what the hell you’re doing.”

Marvin looks down at his wrist and his smile makes Whizzer think he’d just gotten down on one knee or something. Like he was looking at a golden ring, not a sweaty wristband. And it’s so cheesy and so stupid and so genuinely happy that Whizzer doesn’t know what to do. It’s never been this easy before. This effortless. And now, suddenly, here they are. And Whizzer’s heart feels like it’s about to burst because of one stupid smile over one stupid gift. Whizzer plants a quick kiss on Marvin’s lips–one he knows will leave him wanting more once they’re back at the apartment–and leads him out to the locker room, a hand looped so naturally around his waist. He finds himself laughing into his hairline as they walk. Nearly walking into doorways because he can’t tear his eyes away. This is new. This feeling. Whatever it is. Even when he was last with Marvin, it was never like this.

“What?” Marvin asks. Whizzer is leaning against the lockers, watching him change back into his street clothes. Marvin’s hair, still wet from the shower, is dripping onto the concrete floor. Whizzer’s still just wearing a towel around his waist.

Whizzer shakes his head with a grin. “Nothing,” he says. “I just… this was nice. This was good. This was fun.”

Marvin smiles and pulls his t-shirt over his head. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, it was.”

 

When they come back the next week, Marvin hands Whizzer a box that looks like it should be holding a diamond necklace. “What’s this?” he asks.

“Just open it,” Marvin says.

Whizzer raises an eyebrow and lifts the lid to reveal a black and red striped sweatband lying in the white silk of the jewelry box. “Oh my god,” he laughs.

“I have one that matches your outfit, now you have one that matches mine,” Marvin explains.

“This is the cheesiest thing I have ever seen,” Whizzer says. He slips it onto his wrist and holds his arm out, like Marvin had a week earlier, as if admiring an engagement ring. “ _So_ cheesy,” he repeats. “I love it.”

 

 


	2. birthdaysoffalsettoland gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are all one-shots I posted on @birthdaysoffalsettoland on tumblr, as gifts for various people. Enjoy!

**Neurosis**

_(for @ sin-of-omission)_

She’s gone to see Marvin’s psychiatrist five times now. She was really only planning to go once to get Marvin to stop insisting on it every time she spoke to him. Which, yes, was fairly insulting, but he was trying to be helpful. Well, she thinks he was. She also, though, thought that his aversion to sex really was the truly incredible number of STDs he claimed to have contracted. She always has thought the best of him. Especially when he didn’t deserve it.

She’s getting off-track though. The point is the psychiatrist. Doctor Mendel. Doctor Mendel Weisenbachfeld. He’s coming over tonight for dinner and the psychiatry house-call that Jason had insisted on. And why is she so nervous? He’s her psychiatrist. That’s all. Anything else would be unethical. And she doesn’t want anything else anyway, does she? No, he’s painfully awkward, incredibly pretentious, and doesn’t even seem to be that great at his job considering the extraordinary levels of neurosis she’s been going through today. But he’s smart, isn’t he? And he’s funny and cute, and he looks at her like she’s the most beautiful person he has ever seen and--  _ Oh God, I need a drink.  _

She pulls a cheap bottle of wine from the cupboard and downs a glass. Or two. Or… Well, as many as she can manage before the doorbell rings.  _ Shit!  _

“One second!” she calls. “Jason, come here!”

Jason appears from his room, looking small and nervous. “Is he here?”

Trina nods and fixes a strand of his hair that has fallen out of place. “Behave tonight, okay?”

“What does that mean? What does that entail? What should I say to him?” Jason asks on rapid fire.

“Just be yourself!” Trina reassures him. Shallowly. Truth is, she’s desperately asking herself the same questions. 

“Be myself?” Jason questions.

“Stop asking questions and just be yourself!” Trina repeats.

“Okay, I’ll be myself. Whatever that means.” Trina looks down at him to find his finger in his nose, and she quickly slaps his hand away.

“And don’t be disgusting!” She scolds, pushing him towards the door. “You get the door, I’ll get the food. Tonight is going to be good for all of us, alright? Nothing to be nervous about.”

“Alright, mom.”

Trina pulls the chicken marengo--the one she spent way too long making--from the oven and takes a deep breath.  _ Nothing to be nervous about. Nope, nothing at all. _

* * *

**Not-Quite-Coffee**

_(for @oldmanmirandas)_

Cordelia has never liked her job. She always thought it would be cool to work in a coffee shop. But a real one. Not this crappy little coffee stand in the hospital--where the coffee tastes more like piss, and the only food available is stale pastries. Besides, no one buying a hospital coffee is ever in a good mood. Either they’re stressed about a loved one, or stressed about a patient. And they’re always completely exhausted. She tries to be understanding, but when some dude is yelling at her for the blandness of his cappuccino, even though the only control that Cordelia has over that is the pressing of a goddamn button, it can be hard to keep her spirits up.

There’s only one thing she actually enjoys about her day, and it’s one doctor. “Doctor Dubois,” her name tag reads.  Cordelia isn’t sure why Doctor Dubois comes to her crappy little coffee stand every morning, when she could just as easily stop at a coffee shop that makes something even slightly edible. But she isn’t complaining. Doctor Dubois, besides being breathtakingly gorgeous, is the only customer she has who is never grumpy or short with her. She always leads with a warm smile and a kind word, and doesn’t get angry, even when Cordelia asks her to repeat her order because.... Well, because Cordelia simply can’t stop staring at her. It’s like all of her other senses shut down. It’s beyond her control.

Cordelia is more exhausted than normal today. A huge, loud, opinionated family was in to see their grandmother this morning. Her ears still feel like they’re ringing. She drops her head into her arms and closes her eyes. Is it possible to nap while standing? She certainly hopes so.

“You okay?”

Cordelia looks up to see Doctor Dubois, smiling down at her. “No,” she groans.

The doctor laughs and leans against the counter.  _ Oh my gosh, she’s so close.  _ “Anything I can do to help? I am a doctor, you know.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t realised.”

“Hm, I thought the white coat and the fact that I’m in a hospital everyday might’ve clued you in…”

“You’d think, huh,” Cordelia laughs. She stands up straight and stretches. “You probably gathered that I work as a not-quite-barista at this stupid not-quite-coffee shop, so would you like any not-quite-coffee this afternoon?”

“A not-quite-latte would be nice,” Doctor Dubois says. 

“Coming up in a not-quite-minute,” Cordelia replies. “In not quite a minute?” She shakes her head. “That one was a failure.”

Doctor Dubois still laughs, though. “So, what made you so miserable this morning?”

“Children,” she groans. “Lots of children. And adults who act like children. Bigger, louder children.”

“Oh, wait, was it that big family with the curly hair and the mom wearing  _ way _ too much denim?”

“Yes!” Cordelia exclaims. “How’d you guess?”

“Their grandma is my patient,” she sighs. “They’ve been drilling me with questions and ‘suggestions’ all day.”

“Oh no,” Cordelia laughs. “I am so sorry.” She caps off the drink and hands it across the counter. “I couldn’t handle them for five minutes. I can’t imagine what it would be like for a whole day.”

“Well, at least I had this to look forward to,” Doctor Dubois says with a smile.

“What, the shitty latte?”

Doctor Dubois laughs and shakes her head. “Sounds like we’re both having long days,” she says. “Could use something to unwind…”

Cordelia feels her heart skip a beat. “Wh-what sort of thing are you thinking?”

“Dinner? Tonight? The stand closes at five, right?”

“Uh, yeah… yes! Five,” Cordelia stutters. “Five pm on the dot.”

Doctor Dubois laughs again.  _ She has such a pretty laugh.  _ “Alright, great! I’ll pick you up then!” She picks up her latte, leaves a five-dollar bill on the counter and starts to leave. “Oh!” she says, spinning back around. “I’m Charlotte, by the way.”

“Cordelia!” Cordelia responds. “I’ll, uh, see you tonight!”

Charlotte flashes her a smile, before disappearing into a stairway. Cordelia feels her grin almost split her face in half, and she hears herself let out an honest-to-god squeal. She’s going on a date tonight. With a doctor. With Doctor Charlotte Dubois. Maybe this job isn’t so bad afterall.

* * *

**Quiet Light**

_(for @anothersilentdawn)_

[ _check out the moodboard i made to go along with this_ ](https://birthdaysoffalsettoland.tumblr.com/post/173878958799/quiet-light-for-sam-anothersilentdawn)

 

There’s something about the light in the morning. It’s softer then. Newer. It filters in slowly through their bedroom window. You can watch the sun rise by watching the shadows drift and grow and spread. As the sunlight spreads, you can watch the room come slowly into focus. The dying plants by the window, the closet doors, the nightstand, the bedsheets, and him. He sleeps on his back, with a long arm and leg draped over the side of the bed; his head turned toward the window and the comforter barely covering him, even in the winter months. He claims to get hot at night, but he often wakes up shivering.

Even when the morning brings a cloudy gray, the light finds its way in. It’s not so bright, but it washes the room in a cozy, comforting haze. When the clouds bring rain, it’s like a soundtrack for the coming day. And, sometimes, when the clouds have burned away, the raindrops on the windowpane cast spots of faint shadows throughout the room; constellations scattered across his lover’s chest.

He doesn’t know that Marvin watches him like this; watches how the morning sun tracks shadows across his face; how his lips will twist into a smile every so often, when he’s having a good dream. Marvin could never tell him how he memorizes the rhythm of his breath, or how he drapes the blanket over him when he notices goosebumps crop up on his skin; how he marvels at the way the sun lights up his mess of hair, creating a sort of halo of golden brown. This is Marvin’s secret; these quiet moments, watching the sun rise. When he wonders how he ever could have gotten so lucky. When the harsh darkness is overtaken by the soft and quiet light. When nothing, it seems, could ever go wrong.

 


	3. Whizzer's Funeral 1981 - Marvin's Eulogy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I originally wrote this for an English project I did on Falsettos. One of the options for one of its pieces was writing a eulogy so, of course, I had to do that. The way it's written isn't supposed to be super fluid or perfectly worded. It's supposed to be written as if it's transcribed from Marvin's actual delivery. So, there's a bit of rambling and going off-book, as one often does during a speech like this. That's intentional.
> 
> Also, it's literally JUST the eulogy. I don't go into descriptions of the funeral or anything. It's just the eulogy, which is why it appears to be in first person. It isn't really. So, don't get thrown off by the "I..."
> 
> Anyway, uh, enjoy!

"I don’t know how to write a eulogy. I mean, I do. I’m supposed to come up here, introduce myself to my own family, tell you a bit about the deceased--that’s such a cold word, isn’t it? Sterile almost--and then bare my soul. Tell you how much he means--meant--to me, blah, blah, blah. I just don’t know how to write this eulogy.

"Whizzer was too big for a eulogy. He was too big to be confined to a two-minute speech. He was too big to be confined by anything, really. But if I didn’t at least try, I know for a fact that he would find a way to kill me from whatever beyond might exist. He deserves better than that, anyway. I mean, he put up with me, didn’t he?

"The thing is, Whizzer never really wanted this. He never wanted to be pulled into my crazy life. But when I dragged him into it, he just fit. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, certainly. Kind of a disaster for a while, really. But that was always my fault, I think. No matter what life threw at him, or what I threw at him, Whizzer stayed solid. He didn’t break easily. Even at the very end, he kept that stupid sense of humor and infuriating sarcasm. And, underneath all of that, he stayed kind. He would never describe himself as such. I’m not sure I would have not too long ago. He could be rude. He made inappropriate jokes and snarky remarks and spent a lot of time pretending not to care about anything. But it was nothing but pretense. It took a while to break down those walls, but once you did, there was nothing he would not do for you. You could see that in the way he was with Jason. Always caring, always there for him; putting Jason’s interests first, no matter what. Not even his son and sometimes I thought Whizzer was a better parent than I was. When it came down to it, Whizzer was one of the most good-hearted people I have ever known.

"He lived loudly, but he died quietly. That’s one of the things that feels so wrong about it, really. He would’ve killed to go out with a little passion and a dramatic flare. I think he would’ve liked to go out like those people in Strasbourg in the 1500s, who danced themselves to death. Four-hundred people dropping like flies because they couldn’t stop dancing. Yeah, he would have liked that.

"Instead, he got the life drained out of him slowly. Cruelly. By something we can’t even name. By something we haven’t even begun to understand. He couldn’t dance at the end. He could hardly even speak.

"You know, when you’re growing up, people always tell you that good men--good people--get what they deserve. But Whizzer didn’t deserve this. Turns out life just doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, good people die in the worst ways and bad people live long, happy lives, and we have no control over that. But I sound too cynical and morbid, don’t I? He wouldn’t have wanted that. See, if Whizzer were here, he would tell me that that’s exactly why we keep going. That’s exactly why we don’t give up. Because life is unfair and unpredictable and short, and we can only control so much of it, so what we do have--what we do have control over--we’ve got to make that count.

"Whizzer did that. He may not have lived long or died kindly, but what he had, he made count. I only hope that, for however long I have left, I can do the same. And live the way he always wanted me to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOPE YOU ENJOYED!
> 
> KUDOS AND COMMENTS ARE IMPORTANT AND I APPRECIATE THEM SO MUCH!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more fics i wrote as gifts to post on @birthdaysoffalsettoland

**The Hottest Days of Summer**

_for @bookofmarvin_

 

The hottest days of summer always make Marvin think of him.

 

_He was wearing white when they first met. A thin white t-shirt that fit him like a glove, and dark blue jeans that were just as tight. It was the middle of June and he was complaining about the heat, about having to strip down to his undershirt because the AC in his studio was broken. Marvin was even worse off, though, in his suit and tie. Whizzer had made some lude joke about stripping him down, too. He had said it in a low voice, so only he could hear. Marvin had whipped around to look at his wife and son, gathering their things while Marvin paid the photographer his fee. His face burning a deep red. He had left as fast as he could. But he came back. Said he wanted to order an extra print. They both knew it was just an excuse._

 

He’s sweating in his kitchen. The AC is out in his apartment and he swears the heat is hellfire.

 

_He had rented out a small cabin in the Poconos for the weekend. Told his wife he was on a work trip. He had thought about getting a hotel, but this felt more private. The heat and humidity was almost as bad here as in the city. But there was a pool. Whizzer didn’t even take the time to put on a bathing suit. He just stripped down and jumped right in. After some coaxing, Marvin did the same, though he kept his t-shirt and boxers on, forever too self-conscious for skinny dipping. And the cold water felt like heaven, and he watched Whizzer’s bare form move so freely, so confidently, so happily through the pool. And he had wrapped his long legs around Marvin and dragged him under the surface and it felt like a bad movie, but it was real. And he didn’t quite believe that anything so perfect could ever feel this real. And they spent the weekend under unfamiliar sheets, in an unfamiliar place, but it felt more like home than anything else._

 

He’s thought about moving. Maybe this is the sign to finally do it. This apartment doesn’t feel like home anymore. It feels so foreign. Without him, it just feels so empty.

 

_They burned as hot as those first months, and by the next summer, they had burned to ash. The laughter and sex had turned into fighting and screaming. Violent, cruel, and toxic. It was the middle of June again when it ended. When he walked out the door and didn’t come back. When Marvin had forced him out. It was as hot as that first day in his studio. And the suffocating humidity stole the breaths he was already struggling to take. And, despite the terrible weather, he found himself walking around the city, feeling more alone than ever before._

 

And maybe they’ll find each other again. Maybe they will find away to forgive each other someday. Or maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll never see each other again. But Marvin knows that when summer rolls around, and his jackass of a landlord refuses to fix his air conditioning, he’ll still be sitting here, in a pool of his own sweat, dreaming of the feeling of that cold pool, and Whizzer’s hands on his waist, and the taste of chlorine on his lips. He’ll sit here dreaming of those summer evenings when he didn’t have to face the heat alone.

* * *

 

**Voicemail**

_for @the-french-roast_

 

He holds the hideous red tie on his lap, rubbing the knitted fabric lightly between the tips of fingers. He holds his phone to his ear, his mouth dry as Death Valley. He sits there at his kitchen table as the line rings for what feels an eternity, before he hears the familiar sound of his voicemail.

“Hi, this is Marvin, leave a message.”

Whizzer hesitates for a second after the beep, considering whether a possibly disastrous message will be more or less embarrassing than just showing up on his missed calls list without any explanation.

He takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut. _Here goes nothing._ “Uh, hi Marvin. It’s me. Uh, Whizzer. It’s Whizzer.” He winces. _Great start._ “I just… I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. That’s fine. But I found your tie. That awful rectangular one you used to wear?” He looks down at the garment in question. It looks just as terrible off as it does on. “I guess it must have accidentally ended up with my stuff when I moved out. I still haven’t unpacked everything. I know, it’s been almost two years. I’m terrible. But I promise there’s only, like, two left unpacked.” Whizzer stands up and paces his living room, wrapping the tie nervously around his hand. “I was looking for this old coat, though, that I haven’t worn in a while, and I was searching through one of my clothing boxes in my closet and I stumbled across it. I figured you might be looking for it.” He sits down again, but on the couch this time, leaning his elbows against his knees. “Hopefully you’re wearing those ties I picked out for you instead. Maybe I’ve done the whole world a service by accidentally stealing this thing.” He laughs slightly at that. Humorlessly really. “But, yeah, I don’t want anybody thinking it’s mine, so take it back please.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Uh, I can send it to you if you want. Are you still at the same address? If not, tell me before I subject some poor stranger to a strange and suspicious package…” He pauses for a second, as if waiting for a response.

“It’s funny, I was just thinking about this thing. Cause I saw cranberry sauce at the supermarket, something I didn’t realise existed outside of November. Remember that Thanksgiving dinner we did with Jason? A few days late, of course. You were wearing this tie, much to my dismay. And the turkey just…” he shakes his head. “It was a disaster. Though, in my defense, I’d never tried to make one before. I tried again this year. Edible this time. Still not great, but we’re getting there. Anyway, all we ate were the mashed potatoes and the bread and the cranberry sauce. But it was good. It was a really good night.” He notices that he’s grinning. “How’s Jason? He’s in junior high now, right? How’s that going? It can be hell for both him and his parents, so I hope you’re both surviving well enough.” He leans back into his numerous throw pillows. “Everything’s about the same for me. Still taking photos. Still spending my nights at the same bar. Nothing exciting, really. Not that you care.” He pulls one of his pillows from behind him and hugs it to his chest. “God, this message has gotten way off-track. I guess I miss talking to you. How’s that for pathetic?” He squeezes the pillow tightly and shuts his eyes. “The point is, I have your tie. I can just give it away, or maybe burn it for the good of the world. But if you want it, I’ll send it to you. It should get there by the end of the week. Just, uh, text me, or something. I don’t know. Let me know. And tell Jason I say hi. I miss him.” He looks down. “And I miss you, too.” Without another thought, he hangs up.

As soon as he does, his eyes go wide and he throws the pillow he’s been clutching across the room. He stares down at his phone, a panicked expression on his face. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, did I send that?” He scrolls through his call log, looking desperately for some sort of reverse button. Some kill switch designed for embarrassing messages sent to ex-boyfriends, but, of course, he finds nothing. “Shit!” He drops his phone like it’s burned him and speeds towards the kitchen. Towards his liquor cabinet. Towards the only decent excuse for recording a message like that. How does he possibly have _more_ sense when he’s drunk off his ass?

He takes out a bottle of vodka and stares at it for a second, before setting it back on the shelf. It won’t help a thing. It won’t change what happened. It won’t even make him forget. It will just help him stew in self-pity--something he does well without the help of alcohol, thank you very much. He walks back to his couch and falls onto it with a groan, covering his face with a pillow.

A few minutes later, he hears his phone buzz. He grabs at it blindly and picks it up from the floor, removing the pillow to read the text he just received. From Marvin. _Oh no._

> _Glad I’m not the only one who records long, rambling voicemails. Though I’ve always managed to delete mine, thankfully. Burn the tie if you want. The ones you bought me are suiting my needs just fine. I still don’t see why you think it’s so awful, but I suppose I should just trust you here. I’m happy to hear that your turkey skills have improved. Though that was a great thanksgiving regardless. Junior high isn’t too terrible so far. Jason’s doing well in his classes, of course, and he’s made some new friends. He’s in choir and playing baseball as much as he can. He’s doing well. He says hi back, and that he misses you, and that you should come to one of his games. The season is ending soon and there’s no way they’re going to the playoffs. But he’s playing this saturday at 12. Central Park fields. If you can make it. I hope you can._

Whizzer smiles down at his phone, his embarrassment dulled slightly at the text. He starts to type out a response, when another message pops up below the first.

> _I miss you too._

Whizzer sets the phone down, feeling his heart pick up speed as he returns to squeezing the life out of his throw pillow. Saturday at 12. Saturday at 12. He can do that. He can do Saturday at 12. For Jason. Just for Jason. He can do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @poledancingghostson
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review!


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